


burned, but not buried

by nihilistporcupine



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, First Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilistporcupine/pseuds/nihilistporcupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood. — Zuko, after his first Agni Kai.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burned, but not buried

Your face hurts, some awful ghostly pain that seems to radiate from bone. Your face hurts and you can only see on one side and this is not your bed and there's a loud buzzing in your ears and how did you get here and your father is standing above you, more furious than you've ever seen him which is a lot—

you lean over and, before you can hold yourself back, throw up. Father jumps out of the way, disgusted. You're awake, he says.

I'm sorry, Father, you choke out. Please. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—

Sorry, he snarls, cutting off your litany of self-loathing. You're _sorry._  I seem to be hearing that quite a bit. If only it were good enough to make up for completely humiliating me, Prince Zuko.

Father—

Do you know what the court is saying now? he continues, pacing back and forth. That I raised a sniveling coward. That _both_ of my heirs are little girls. Did I not beat you often enough? Let you hang around your wreck of a mother and your failure uncle too much?

A brief flash of anger courses through you, instinctively, at the insult to your mother— but you clamp your tongue between your teeth, press down until you taste blood.

I always knew there was something wrong with you, he says. Azula was born lucky, and you— you were lucky to be born. I should have had you drowned like a sick koala-puppy a long time ago, but it's too late to do that now. You're banished. I can't have you embarrassing me any longer.

The pit of your stomach drops out. No. No no no. This is all some nightmare, a fever dream about pain and rage and the stink of singed flesh and now being exiled from the only country you've ever known. You're going to wake up to Mom wiping your brow. Banished? you whisper. I didn't mean to. Please. I didn't mean to.

I'm supposed to keep craven scum like you in my house, let you infect my _daughter_? Crossed arms, immutable expression— you think about portraits you've seen in the Hall of Ancestors, portraits of Kazuhiko who begat Sozin who begat Azulon who begat Iroh and Ozai, and suppress a shudder. Be glad I didn't snap your neck in the arena, boy. I had every right.

I'm your son. It's quiet and you say it to the blankets and it means nothing (will prove to mean nothing), but you must try it.

I have no son, the Fire Lord counters without a second thought. Bring me the avatar in chains, and perhaps that could be reconsidered.

You pleaded once. It did you no favors. You cannot bring yourself to beg for more mercy than you've already been given.

(One mercy you do get is unconsciousness swallowing you, gold and black swimming before your eyelids, and then quiet oblivion.)

* * *

 

  
You flicker awake and see the last thing you ever wanted to see— Azula, perched on the edge of your bed, flipping through some heavy book on political theory. She's wearing armor that's too big for her, and there's a large diadem gleaming in her dark hair. Your diadem.

Hello, brother, she says with a little smile. Did you know that you pissed yourself and begged for _Mom_ in front of the entire court?

She's not— you've never seen her as a girl. As your sister. She's a gold-eyed demon, all pointed tongue and clawed hands and endless wells of cruelty. You remember how she raised her fist before the blow landed, in glorious, frenzied anticipation, and loathe her so much it burns.

Father has always loved her, from the day she made her first spark. She never had to earn it. She's never had to earn _anything_.

I hoped he'd kill you, she whispers close to your good ear, giggling like you're schoolgirls sharing a secret. It was so disappointing when he just burned half of your ugly face off, but since you're banished, I guess I'm still heir apparent. Can I have your room once you're gone? I want to be closer to Daddy.

Shut up, you order, but your voice comes out in a weak rasp. Like your lungs have been flooded with smoke. You won't have it for long. I'm going to capture the avatar and be back before spring.

She smiles so brightly you want to break her jaw for it. Really? Are you sure that if you find him, you won't just get on your knees and beg? That seems to be what you do best, Zuzu.

You grab the water-pitcher on your bedside table and hurl it at her with strength you didn't know you had, eleven years of hatred condensed into one action— it clips the top of her ear before it hits the opposite wall, leaving a bloody trail down to her jawline. Get out, you say, panting hard. You're disgusting. No wonder Mom hated you. Get out.

Mother's _dead_ , she sneers, and her features twist into something unspeakably ugly as she looks at you again. She wipes herself off with her sleeve. And you should be. You're too worthless to breathe. She hovers around the doorway for a moment, then strides out, into her new life. I'll tell Mai you said goodbye, she throws over her shoulder.

Thinking about Mai makes you want to fling yourself out the window even more than usual.

* * *

 

  
When your eyes open again, you smell bitter medicinal herbs— hear some hummed lullaby, _Leaves on the Vine_ , the kind of thing they sing at funerals — and you find your uncle sitting at your bedside, and you don't think you've ever been so relieved in your life.

 _Zuko_ , he exhales before you can say a word, mopping your brow with a wet cloth. Agni, it's good to see you awake. Do you remember...?

I'm sorry, you begin to babble, a fresh wave of shame overwhelming you as you look up into his face. I should've listened to you, I'm sorry—

I think you've been punished enough, he soothes— there's a flash of fury in his eyes, one you can't figure out how to parse. Hush, and don't think about that. I'm not angry with you, I promise.

I'm leaving, you say suddenly, rolling the syllables around in your mouth— reifying them. For... a while. Until I capture the avatar.

(The sheer hopelessness of your situation is starting to sink in. You're small and skinny and thirteen, you have no idea where to look, you're going to be a half-blind, deformed _freak_ with no money or resources or allies—)

I know, he says, testing the edges of your bandage to see if they still stick. That's why I wasn't here sooner— I've been making arrangements for a ship and a crew. I'm coming with you.

Why? you ask, propping yourself up on your elbows. Father didn't say you had to, did he?

Well, let's see, he starts, the corner of his mouth twitching up briefly. I could go travel the world with my favorite nephew, who still isn't half as old as he thinks he is, or continue... _enjoying_ my brother's hospitality. Not a very difficult decision.

Much to your shame ( _boys don't cry, how many times do I have to drill it into your skull_ ), your eyes are prickling with tears and your thanks dies in your tight throat. Uncle notices, and rests a warm hand on your head. I'm sorry about your hair, he says, grimacing. Some of it— the physician had to shave the whole left side, and then it was terribly uneven.

What are we going to do? you ask, and pick at a stray thread on your infirmary pants. Far more concerned about that than about your hair.

You are going to heal, before anything else, Uncle says firmly— he knows you all too well. This is a very severe injury, and too much strain could cause even more damage. And then... you will continue your firebending training, and we'll hunt the avatar, as long as it takes.

Your entire life, you have attempted to compensate for having a body, pushing it beyond its limitations, but your eyelids are fluttering shut in spite of your best efforts. Sleep, nephew, he says, his tone growing more gentle. A man needs his rest.

* * *

 

  
There's a commotion outside the infirmary door— one gravelly voice and one raspy one. Your uncle and... Mai, you register, and your heart sinks straight down into your stomach.

Please, General Iroh, Mai says, girlish and shrill and nothing like her usual monotone. Just a few minutes and then I'll go, I promise.

He needs his sleep, Uncle says, wavering. But— no, you know what, go in. He could use some decent company more.

You brace yourself for the moment she steps inside and sees you, and it's even worse than you imagined. She's crying, and a thousand times worse is the realization a split-second after that she's trying very hard not to. For _your_ sake.

I'm not that ugly, am I? you feebly joke— not wanting to think about what your face will look like once the bandages are off.

You're never coming back, she says without preamble as she sits down on the bed, you _idiot_. Azula told me, she then cuts off before you can get a word in edgewise. Who cares about some dumb regiment in the middle of nowhere? Is it worth losing everything for?

Yes, you want to say, no, you want to plead, but nothing comes out. I'll find the avatar, you promise instead, hopefully sounding more like a man than a boy with a cracking voice. And then I'll be home soon. Don't worry.

My parents... they'll make me marry someone else if you don't, she says quietly to the bedspread. I'm going to miss you, she says even more quietly. A lot.

Before you can say anything to comfort her, with your inadequate and unworthy mouth, she pulls something out of her pocket— a black stone, shaped like a heart. I found it on Ember Island, she whispers, thrusting it into your clammy palm. Don't forget about me, okay?

She's never this sentimental, and you don't want to think about what it might mean, how she doesn't expect to see you again. Then she throws her arms around your neck, and the two of you have always been terrible with words, and all you can do is listen to the sound of her pounding heartbeat.

(You'll remember her, rock or no rock, but you won't tell her that.)

* * *

 

Your father burned all of your mother's things after she left or died or never existed in the first place, whatever version of the truth suits him best today, but you still have a picture of her hidden in a drawer under a false bottom. Right before you leave, after you've shoved cotton into the toes of your new stiff boots and decide to put your old stuffed rabiroo into your rucksack, you pull it out.

You don't want to risk one of the servants— or, worse, Azula— finding it, but you want to bring your mother into her son's disgrace even less. She's beautiful in this portrait, delicate features and long, silky hair— and the sadness in her eyes, as always, pierces you. You wonder why you never noticed how unhappy she was, why you feel the need to add to her burdens in death, but you can't stop yourself from saying goodbye.

Hi, Mom, you start, like you have so many times before. I... I really screwed up, and I'm going to be gone for a while. I mean, I know you told me to try to not make Dad angry with me, and Uncle told me to keep my mouth shut in there... but I'll fix it, I promise. No one else's honor depended on capturing that coward avatar. I'll drag him back home in chains like Dad said, and—

(Dad will finally love me)

And Dad will let me live here again, you finish, forcing your voice not to wobble. He _will_.

She doesn't say anything back, but you remember the last time she was in this room— her arms wrapped tightly around you like she was trying to keep your spirit from escaping your body, the brush of her lips against the top of your head. Memories of her love for you, more precious than any jewels could ever be.

You think you'll keep them close to your chest, on what are sure to be cold nights.


End file.
